Black Ink
by TheGoldenSeraphim
Summary: Ginny Weasley had not used black ink since she was 11 years old.


**Black Ink**

She hadn't used black ink since she was eleven years old.

The professors were understanding – or they tried to be – consenting to grade essays written in sprawling green ink, in looping purple, allowing her to hand in tests in yellow ink, even. Dumbledore had gone so far as to force Snape to accept her work, no matter what condition it was in. The man had taunted her horribly, but he had complied.

She knew Snape was right. She knew it was foolish. But every time she saw black ink, she thought of Tom. And Tom was the last person she _ever_ wanted to think about.

The others didn't understand. She didn't blame them – for how could they? She had never spoken about the nightmares that haunted her sleep, about the memories that flashed before her eyes in every waking moment. They had never noticed as the memories faded, because they'd never seen them in the first place. They had never seen her harden, strengthen – never noticed when her innocence faded, leaving behind a world-weary young woman. They never remembered, never saw when they looked at her, the girl that came out of the chamber. They only saw the girl that went in.

And the memories followed her, the knowledge that she possessed haunted her – but she never told. And how could anyone know if she never told? Dumbledore didn't know, didn't realize how much information she had, how much Tom had told her. He didn't recognize what a source of information she was. And she never told.

But fear was for the people who had chosen to be victims. And Ginny Weasley knew that a victim was exactly what she could not become. Victims didn't fight back. And with her family on the line, with her friends in so much danger, she had to learn to fight back.

Ginny Weasley was a Gryffindor. And Gryffindors rushed in where angels feared to tread.

Whether it was wise or not.

But there was no way to rush in when she was still afraid of black ink.

She started it that summer. Every day she would sit down and write a diary – for the first time since her first year – with a quill dipped in black ink. She would write for 30 minutes without pause, forcing herself to continue even when her hand began to shake.

Her information wasn't much – not the location of strongholds, the names of Death Eaters – but maybe, just maybe, it was even more valuable than all of that.

She knew how Tom Riddle thought.

When he had been inside her head, when he had taken her over, he had not been careful enough. He had allowed her a glimpse inside his mind during the times when he had forced her to harm her classmates.

She knew how Tom Riddle thought.

It took her two months. Two months of sitting and writing for half an hour every day. Two months of staring at old clippings of news articles from the first war. It took her two months of wondering what Harry was doing, of wondering where Sirius was, of wondering if Lily and James were watching him – of wondering if Gideon and Fabian would be proud of her.

She knew they would not be proud of the little girl sitting beneath a tree in the orchard, afraid of her own knowledge.

She could sit there, waiting and wondering for days. She could spend her time hoping someone else would help her to trust herself. But she knew that no one else would.

She knew that no one else could.

It took her three hours – three hours after she had decided what to do – to actually stand up and do it. The entire walk up to her room was spent trying to find any other way. But there was none, and she knew it.

Sitting down in front of her desk, Ginny Weasley pulled out a piece of parchment, a quill, and an inkpot filled to the brim with black ink. Slowly, her hand trembling, she began to write.

_Dear Headmaster, _

_I have been hiding from the truth for four years. I think it is time to acknowledge what I know. I have information which may be helpful to you in predicting Tom's moves. Please let me know a time and place which would be convenient for you to meet. Sincerely,_

_Ginny Weasley_

Leaning back in her chair, she stared down at the letter. With a shaking hand, she traced the letters on the page. Her hand came away covered in black ink. Shaking her head, she put the memories aside. And reaching for her Potions essay, she once more dipped the quill into the inkpot and began to write.

Severus Snape had told her that she was not a worthy Gryffindor.

He was wrong.

Rising to her feet, she went to find Errol. The black ink of the letter was smudged in some places. As the owl flew away, Ginny looked down at her hands.

She smiled, wiping the black ink away without worry.

And she was not afraid.


End file.
